


roisters

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Celebrations, Forehead Touching, Introspection, Love Confessions, M/M, Movie: Star Wars: A New Hope, POV Third Person Omniscient, Post-Star Wars: Rebels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-09 01:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16440872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: For once, he is willing to put aside his thoughts and act. “Garazeb,” he says, because he is the only one who calls Zeb by his full name and because he’s noticed the way Zeb’s fur ripples in pleasure after he says it and somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that means something. “A word?”





	roisters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BanSW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BanSW/gifts).



They are together the day the Death Star explodes above Yavin. Not so unusual for them. After all, they spend most of their days together, working and fighting and eating and laughing and sometimes even relaxing. All together. Everyone in the Massassi Base lives in one another’s pockets; that’s the price of staging a successful rebellion, they all suppose. But Kallus and Zeb seem especially close. Where one goes, the other is certain to follow, a specter, a ghost.

It has become a long running joke, what with Zeb having been a member of the Ghost’s crew, with a call sign of Specter Four. Kallus is their mascot of a sort, an unlikely ally the same way that Hera’s rag tag crew became unlikely heroes on Lothal. He’s never seemed to mind it, hasn’t said anything one way or the other about it though he’s often spoken his opinions otherwise, loudly, for anyone to hear. Some have noted that Kallus tends to go a little pink when it comes up, but since Zeb is there to deflect, nobody has ever figured out just why it is that Kallus blushes about that versus any of the other things he could blush about.

Anyway. They’re together today. As they are most days. And they, like everyone else not currently flying a ship, have run out onto the airfield and tilted their heads up to better view the fireworks show lighting up the atmosphere. There will be a lot of complaints later, neck aches and pains and twinges, but nobody is complaining now. Nobody even notices now. Least of all Kallus, who is staring up in wonder and realizing for the very first time that he actually believes the Rebellion can win, that he didn’t just choose to join them because it was right, because Zeb was right, because he owed the galaxy something for all the crimes he’s committed against it, knowingly and unknowingly.

“Stars, it’s—” he says, low, almost inaudible. It’s drowned out by the exclamations, gasps, the celebratory cries of the others as they realize what this means, what they’ve done, what they’ve succeeded in doing. And Kallus feels that, he does, like a whole chasm of possibilities could crack open his chest at any moment and spill across the ground. A part of him fears what he might be capable of if it does and a part of him looks forward to it. He hates to think it, but the display is beautiful. Meaningful.

And yet he cannot help but consider the hundreds of thousands of people on-board who couldn’t have had any idea this was coming. Did each and every one of them deserve it? If Kallus were there, would he have deserved it?

Do they—the Rebels, Kallus himself—have any other choice? Has the Empire given them any other choice? No, he decides quickly enough, though he feels enough shame to keep from expressing his aesthetic appreciation for the sparkle of that destruction as it rains down overhead. There are plenty enough people around to express that opinion in his stead, shouts of isn’t that a Force-damned sight to behold, it’s gorgeous, it is.

His words, though, are not lost to everyone, not to the most important person anyway. Zeb always keeps half an ear out for the words Kallus chooses to say, finds them as dear as any words ever spoken, though he’s never articulated as much to Kallus and probably can’t even articulate it to himself. If he had to explain it, he’d just say that Kallus usually has something to say that’s worth hearing, but that’s not exactly the truth and he would be dissatisfied with the explanation as soon as he spoke it.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Zeb replies, startling Kallus from his reverie. There is still an awed, humbled look on his face that Zeb finds compelling, though he’s perhaps not ready right now to say as much. And Kallus, much as he might like to believe otherwise, is not ready to hear.

“It’s a start,” Kallus warns. It’s easy to retreat into pessimism; it’s been a constant companion for a long time and it’s only in recent years that he’s learned that having hope can and does pay off. But this is still just the beginning of something bigger. After Geonosis, he’d done some digging, found out that this project, the Death Star, had been worth exterminating an entire people over. Kallus believes the Empire did that and will do and has done the same or worse to others; but all that means is they’re invested and they’re bigger than the Rebellion and they will see this loss as the challenge it is.

It will only get worse from here and Kallus worries about the cost.

It is for that reason, perhaps, that he throws aside his readiness or lack thereof. They’re all living on borrowed time, every last rebel. They’ve painted targets on their backs and the Empire will stop at nothing to defeat them now. Before, they’d been a nuisance. The Empire had known they would defeat them. Now the grandest project the Empire has ever undertaken has been blown to pieces in the skies of a backwater that nobody save a handful of academics and archaeologists would have remembered otherwise except for what has happened this day.

He doesn’t stop to consider Zeb’s readiness. For once, he is willing to put aside his thoughts and act. “Garazeb,” he says, because he is the only one who calls Zeb by his full name and because he’s noticed the way Zeb’s fur ripples in pleasure after he says it and somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that means something. “A word?” He jerks his head toward the hangar bay, the empty hangar bay. Everyone is out here and there are now bottles of the finest champagne spilling across the ground, missing more often than not the flutes they are meant to fill. Corks fly and bounce, getting kicked around by the feet of exuberant officers and technicians, turned into makeshift balls in games of kickball.

Zeb waggles his eyebrows. “You wanna get me alone, eh?” It’s a joke, a tease, and they both know it, but Kallus flushes and ducks his head anyway and Zeb, smarter than most people give him credit for, takes note of it. When he clears his throat, he gets more serious. Kallus doesn’t insist on talking much, doesn’t ask for the privacy in which to do so. When he does, it’s worth the utmost care. “Yeah, all right. A word. I can do that.”

They weave their way through the throngs of revelers, receive many claps on the arms, many congratulations, and each one is returned with equal exuberance. They are happy; it’s just complicated by the costs. Nothing worth having comes without a hefty price tag attached.

A few other couples sneak away, too, but Kallus and Zeb are too wound up in their own orbit to notice much of what anyone else is doing. Or even to notice the way a few of their closer compatriots bend their heads toward one another and smile and exchange tokens. There’s been a pool on, though neither Zeb nor Kallus know about it, and a couple of people think they’ve won something.

Maybe they have.

Kallus offers Zeb a smile. It’s a smile he’s only ever offered to Zeb, though he’s managed to become friendly with far more rebels than he ever expected he would when he first offered intelligence to them and became Fulcrum in exchange. He’s never realized it’s a smile he reserves only for Zeb, but Zeb’s got a sneaking suspicion born of long experience that this is exactly what it is. In return, he’s proud to offer a wink and his own smile in return.

It’s always been fun to rile Kallus up.

And Kallus has grown to enjoy being riled up.

“So,” Zeb says as soon as they’ve got the privacy Kallus had wanted. “What word would you like, Kallus?”

“I,” he says, slow, a little hazy, like he’s still gathering his thoughts, “there’s something I should tell you. I’ve wanted to tell you.” Though, if he’s honest, he hadn’t known that until this moment, with the Death Star burning up as the pieces tried to launch themselves at the ground, a last ditch attempt to hurt the Rebellion. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t known much of anything before this moment. Zeb, the Rebellion, they keep opening his eyes to things of which he’s had no awareness; he is grateful for that, more grateful than any of them can possibly know.

Words have never come easy to Kallus; that he’s wound up in Intelligence, where words are the currency by which all work is done and paid, is just a quirk of the galaxy’s humor at play. But he can get them out when he has to. “I’ve come to care deeply about you, Zeb,” he says, unadorned, though no less feeling for that, and allows himself a moment of relief for knowing Zeb won’t judge him for it. The word, the only word that matters in the end, sits on his tongue, a heavy weight pressing against the inside of his mouth. It would choke him if it could. But Kallus is made of sterner stuff than that. There is nothing to fear in the truth. “In fact, I rather feel I’m in love with you.”

Zeb stills except for the way his ears swivel forward, pricking up to better hear Kallus’s words. For a moment, he is struck by the possibility that he’s misheard. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Kallus; he does, always. Kallus does not lie or exaggerate. He doesn’t couch his words in pretty diversions to make them more palatable. He is ever honest. Even his face is open right now, unguarded. There is no expectation there, no need beyond the relief of having said something finally.

The great bloody fool.

And Zeb, who maybe sometimes does deflect with words and actions, choosing to parry in order to avoid making confessions, calls him that. In exactly those words. “You great bloody fool,” he says, throwing his arms around Kallus’s shoulders, lifting him into the air and startling a laugh out of him as he winds his hands in the fur of Zeb’s back. “About kriffing time.”

Zeb brings their foreheads together, deposits Kallus back on the floor so that he might run his fingers through Kallus’s hair instead.

“I’m not blowing up another Death Star to get you to admit you like me, too, you hear?” Zeb says around a laugh of his own.

Kallus blows out a relieved breath. “I suppose I can manage that without another fireworks display.” He pushes his hand through his hair, smoothing the strands Zeb had just gone through the trouble of mussing. “But only for you.”

That, as it will turn out even years down the line, is just fine with them.


End file.
